


eye of the snake

by charcoalmin, nightlives, sunkyus



Series: CONTRE [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band), The Boyz (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Graphic Description, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mafia AU, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Sex Addiction, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, THIS HAS NOT BEEN DISCONTINUED, all chapters will be properly trigger warned in the beginning notes, also, anti religious themes, ch 4 will be out asap we promise!, elements of humor, occasionally, this is going to be very dark, uhhh more like many minor character deaths! oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26264272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charcoalmin/pseuds/charcoalmin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightlives/pseuds/nightlives, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunkyus/pseuds/sunkyus
Summary: His father simply stares at Minho, as if pondering exactly what he is about to say to him. After a moment, he opens his mouth. “You’ll be my mole,” he directs firmly, never an ounce of hesitation in his voice. Minho almost gawks at his father, completely unable to process what he just said.-or ;; Lee Minho, the son of the most powerful mafia head in South Korea, is assigned to become the snake’s eye into the only group that could take them down. Things don’t go particularly smoothly, though. Of course.
Relationships: Han Jisung | Han/Lee Minho | Lee Know
Series: CONTRE [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1908211
Comments: 26
Kudos: 89





	1. i. lm

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS:  
> graphic description of gore, murder, blood, homophobia, dubious consent (minho has sex and though he doesn’t explicitly say no, it is heavily implied multiple times that he does not want to have sex with her), hinted abuse, mentions of throwing up (nothing explicitly described), monotony anti religious themes.

03:02 AM :: SEPTEMBER 13, 2021

  
  


_“Some people are like fragile petals,_

_and they don’t recover from hardship._

_Do we blame the petal? Or do we excuse_

_it’s fragility and mourn it’s loss?”_

- _Aleksandra Leyland_.

It’s dark. It has to be when Lee Minho does things like this. There is blood on his hands, blood on his clothing, blood leaking onto the pavement floor of the warehouse he’s visiting.

In the middle of the room sits a wooden chair. Seated in said chair is a middle aged man, his wrists and ankles tied to its arms and legs. His name is Hwan, that’s really all Minho knows. Hwan must have pissed off Minho’s father if he was added to his hit list, though. The man is half conscious, blood steadily spilling from his mouth as his labored breathing echoes through the warehouse like a quiet melody. Minho stands in front of him, a bored look on his face. He twirls a knife in his hand without paying much attention to it, a habit of his. Minho sighs before kneeling in front of Hwan and lifting his chin. The man jolts awake, eyes widened as best as they could be, for they were so swollen Minho wasn’t sure whether or not Hwan was even able to see him. Minho gave a sly smile anyway, teeth poking out childishly.

Hwan hacks, blood flying from his mouth onto the ground. Minho sighs in annoyance at the mess; some of the blood had even spattered onto his shoes. He clicks his tongue in irritation. “You got my favorite shoes dirty,” he grunts out in a low, dangerously calm tone. “Ah, what a _mess_.”

Much like a snake that’s about to strike ‒ Minho’s final blow to Hwan is one that is precise and deadly. In a quick, practiced move, he slits the man’s stomach open. Hwan gurgles wetly as his blood flows. He’s dead in exactly one minute and forty seven seconds ‒ Minho knows because he counts. Call it curiosity, or call it morbid intrigue.

Hwan’s bleeding head hangs limply against his chest, bruises and cuts scattered across his dirty flesh. There is now a deep incision carved into his gut, intestines hanging freely. Hwan’s once pristine white button up is staining with his own red ichor. The scene is like something out of a horror movie, yet the young heir can’t find it in himself to regret what he’s done. He’s over six years past the feeling of remorse settling in his stomach.

One would think that they’d never get used to spilling the blood of another man, but he’s gotten quite talented at being numb to it. That being said, though, Minho has gotten quite good at being numb to _everything_ throughout the years. In a life like the one he is forced to live, you have to grow to be desensitized to violence and bloodshed if you so wish to survive. Not that he holds that desire much anymore, though. It isn’t that he wants to die, not exactly. More so that he just doesn’t care either way.

“You didn’t last too long at all,” he remarks, mock disappointment laced in his voice. “Alright, let's get you out of this shirt.”

He shuffles a slight bit closer, reaching up and undoing the shirt’s buttons. It takes him longer than he would have liked it to, the blood on his hands and the very same substance seeping through the clothing making the job a slippery one. Before pulling the shirt down Hwan’s shoulders when he finishes up, Minho slips his blade underneath the rope knotted tightly around his wrists to make it easier to move his hands around. Eventually, he is able to pull the button up completely free from the man’s body. He skims Hwan’s torso for a viper tattoo ‒ the only thing that can be used to identify him as a member of Mamushi. It doesn’t take him long to find it though, as the ink is drawn simply on his left shoulder. Minho raises his knife to it and begins to slit the skin, scarring it beyond recognition. With that precaution taken, one that is required by his father, he is finally done. At least with the technical aspects of this assassination. Minho is now free to add his finishing touch to the picture in front of him.

He stands and walks the ten feet to his supply bag, a small and pretty black lace little thing he’d found in Gangnam recently and quite likes. He digs his hand into it, pulling out a plastic baggie filled with beautiful dried flowers. From the bag, he takes out a pink tulip and blue hyacinth wrapped with an aqua string, their combined meaning being _I am sorry, but now you are at peace and protected_. Minho makes quick work of returning to Hwan, and wrapping his lifeless hands around the small bouquet.

He leaves quietly.

* * *

08:57 AM :: SEPTEMBER 13, 2021

Shiny, black dress shoes echo throughout the wide hallway as Lee Minho walks towards his father's office at the end. His hands rest snugly in his pant pockets, an uninterested sigh leaving plush pink lips. His posture radiates dejectivity, shoulders slumped and back hunched, a stance his father would surely berate him for if he saw. The sun shines brightly through the large windows, illuminating the room in a bright morning glow. Minho’s eyes slowly scan the red velvet walls that compliment tan tiled floors, large family portraits lining the walls. His father is, in the simplest terms, obnoxious and large within himself. His fingers subconsciously touch the scar on his cheek. The rough indents of the skin on his face no longer bother him; a memory he has learned to bury. Forgotten. He fights the small knot his stomach goes into as he thinks of it, his mouth dropping into a small frown and he shakes his head to rid himself of the feeling. Before long, he arrives at the cream colored door. He straightens his posture, pushing his shoulders back and knocking firmly on the wood. Minho always has to steady himself before conversations with his father, always has to rid himself of any expression and visible disdain he holds for him. One, two, three knocks before he turns the golden knob and lets himself in.

“Ah, Minho. So nice of you to finally join us.” Lee Deoksu, Minho’s father, greets. His father doesn’t bother to look his way, his pen scribbling almost angrily across pages that are scattered along his expensive mahogany desk. Hard brown eyes meet softer ones of the same shade, a stern look painted along the elder man’s face. Their identicality in appearance is something that Minho has a deep contempt for. Looking like a man that has made his life and the lives of millions a living hell is nothing Minho could ever be proud of. He stares back at his father’s deathly glare, face completely and utterly blank. “Get your hands out of your pockets, you know better.” His arms move on their own as he quickly shifts his hands from his pockets to his front. Choi Taeho, Deoksu’s right hand man and the only human Minho has ever witnessed his father drip a sliver of trust on, stands next to the large leather chair the mafia head sits in.

Taeho stands straight with his hands folded at his front, shoulders squared and an equally stoic expression almost mirroring Minho’s on his aged face. Taeho has always reminded Minho of a gargoyle, tall but slumped and ugly in the face. Minho had to stop himself from pointing this out to Taeho as a child for fear of being scolded, or perhaps something far worse, by his father.

“You wished to see me?” Minho says in an even voice. He fights his body wanting to rest its weight on his hip. If Deoksu notices that his body is slack, he’d be in for a whirlwind of rage. His father’s temper is that of God, non-existent. At least to Minho, God didn’t exist. He had stopped praying to the magic cloud man in the sky who decides whether you go to paradise or burn for all of eternity a long time ago.

Minho holds Deoksu’s stare for a short duration of thirty seconds, but it feels as if it lasts for hours. The tension between father and son is so tense that Taeho would probably struggle to cut through it with even the sharpest of knives. The silence ends as soon as it begins, and Deoksu drops his pen onto the desk as he leans backwards to grab something. A newspaper. Minho struggles to hide his smirk, small fist coming to hide his lips as he covers a low chuckle with a cough, knowing exactly what his father is about to show him. Deoksu sees right through his antics, though. He throws the thick newspaper onto the desk, a loud smack from the impact of the bulky thing resonating through the large study. Minho as a child would have jumped, but he simply keeps eye contact with his father. He’d stopped being afraid of him a long, long time ago. “So you know what I called you in for, I presume?” Deoksu’s voice is eerily calm, and it makes the hair on the back of Minho’s neck stand up.

He’s only ever witnessed his father dead calm one time. It’s not an event he likes to go back to.

The logical side of him knows he’s fucked up big time, but his hatred for the man sitting in front of him runs deeper and clouds his judgement. He just cannot find himself to care, if he’s being frank. “This is the third time this month I’ve had to send men in to cover for you, Minho,” his father scolds. His long yet chubby finger points angrily to the headline of the newspaper. **LOCAL MAN FOUND BRUTALLY MURDERED IN YEOUIDO DISTRICT** **.** It’s unpublished. He can tell because it dates the next day. Anything that has to do with Mamushi in the newspaper is immediately ‘taken care of’, per se. “Would you like to explain why you almost cost me my entire empire because you wanted to play around?”

Minho simply straightens his shoulders, the smallest hint of a smirk on his pretty lips. “Sorry. He pissed me off.” He says, not an ounce of remorse in his voice. His father’s dead eyes glint with anger for a split second. No ordinary being would be able to see it, but Minho knows his father like the back of his hand from thoroughly studying his reactions during his twenty-two years of life. His father is, in every sense of the word, livid.

Minho can almost see the light tremors from his father’s seething body. Tanned, slightly wrinkled hands clench into fists on his desk as he sucks in a breath. For a reason that Minho didn’t particularly care to know, Deoksu has been working on his outbursts and how easily he explodes. Something about his “blood pressure getting too high” and that “he’s susceptible to a heart attack” or whatever his mother said. 

“He’s a loan shark, Minho. Of course he’s going to irritate you. Why do you think I had you kill him?” Deoksu sighs animatedly, the most human his father has ever sounded to him, before opening his eyes once again to look at his son. Loan sharks. Probably the lowest rank you can have in Mamushi. They drop like flies most of the time, whether it’s from Minho or simply disappearing because the pressure of being in a powerful mafia was too much. “Normally, I’d kill anybody who disobeys my orders,” Deoksu drawls out, his signature glare resting once again on his features. Minho subconsciously wonders if he looks like him when he glares. He fights a grimace at the thought. “But, since your mother would mourn her only son and I would lose my only heir to the throne, I have decided on a different punishment for you.” He leans back to rest against his chair, arms crossed. His golden Rolex watch glints against the lighting, hitting Minho’s eyes for a second.

Minho has to fight back a scoff. Deoksu wouldn’t care for his mother’s well being if he were to kill his only son. His mother has slowly been losing her mind since he was fifteen; it’s a miracle she still knows who he is. It’s a miracle that she still knows who she _herself_ is.

Deoksu leans back again, and throws a manila folder onto the desk. In neat handwriting, which certainly isn’t his father’s, the word Yellowood is printed. Minho stares at the folder for a second longer before looking back at his father. “Open it.” Deoksu orders swiftly, and Minho is quick to obey. His pride is wounded for reacting so quickly, but he’d rather not anger his father any longer. He may like to push his father’s buttons, but he knows his limits. Yet another scar, this one on his stomach, starts to itch at the thought. He flips through the folder, skimming through the information and looking at the pictures attached to each file. There’s a candid picture of a man, maybe around his age, clearly taken by a sniper camera attached to the first file.

**_BANG CHAN. 23._** it reads. He has messy dark brown hair in the picture, a little bit darker than Minho’s own dyed and slicked back locks. Full lips rest peacefully as he walks in the still picture, eyebrows furrowed to hide his eyes from the sun. He wears black joggers and a white tee shirt, a beige flannel pulled over his arms. He’s attractive. Minho thinks he would be his type. If he knew what his type was, that is. “Is he my next target?” Minho asks, still studying the picture. Minho usually deals with older men, since that’s who mostly works for his father. It’ll be one hell of a struggle, seeing as this Chan person looks pretty fit. 

“You could say that,” Deoksu responds, hands now interlocked and his chin resting on them. There’s a certain look in his eyes that makes Minho nervous ‒ something he hasn’t been since he was a child. “Keep looking through it, son.” _Don’t call me that_ , he almost snaps in return, but he holds his tongue. They are not father and son. They are merely coworkers in his eyes, and even that is putting it nicely. Minho considers himself Deoksu’s attack dog, a servant to the throne he’s supposed to inherit in a few years. His stomach churns at the thought.

He turns to the next file, another candid picture attached. It’s of another man around his age, one with chubby cheeks yet a sharp jawline. Minho almost touches his own face to see if his features are as chiseled as his. It reads **_SEO CHANGBIN. 22._ **His shoulders are wide, arms almost ripping his shirt sleeves at the seam. His tee shirt is tucked into dark jeans, accentuating his small waist and thick, muscled thighs. If Minho were a prepubescent boy, he’d be a blushing mess. But he knows better than to squirm and expose his interests in front of his father. He’s witnessed first hand what happens.

“What exactly am I looking at, here?” he dares to question.

”Two members of the only threat Mamushi has ever faced,” Deoksu says, tone laced with annoyance. “They’re a self proclaimed vigilante group.” He stares at Minho for a moment, as if pondering what he is about to say to him next. After the pause, he opens his mouth. “You’ll be my mole,” he directs firmly, never an ounce of hesitation in his voice. Minho almost gawks at his father, completely unable to process what he had just said.

“Your mole.” Minho repeats, a laugh of utter disbelief leaving his mouth. His father has people solely for this type of job, yet he chooses _him_. His head assassin. To be a mole. Minho’s eyes widen and his small fists clench up on their own terms. “You’re kidding.”

“This makes me just as miserable as it makes you, my sweet son.” Deoksu coos, false sympathy dripping off of his tongue like thick honey. _Lies_ , Minho thinks. _All he does is lie_. He clenches his jaw at his father's remark, but just barely. Deoksu notices, though. Of course he does. He notices everything. A lethal smile spreads across his face. “Is there something wrong?” he asks, tone still artificially sugary. “Nothing.” Minho responds, mouth warping shapes into a rehearsed grin. He shrugs. “Nothing at all.”

  
  
  


* * *

02:09 PM :: SEPTEMBER 14, 2021

Minho is with Seolhee today. Not that he particularly wants to be, though. He would much rather lounge around his apartment all day than be out in public with his least favorite crazy bitch. Two weeks ago, she demanded he fuck her next to the body of the man she had just killed. She decided to add her own “decorations”, as she put it, and bit his bloody corpse. Literally, bit it. If Minho hadn’t done nor seen gorier things growing up, he might have thrown up the meal he had eaten earlier that day. He didn’t want that mouth around his cock. Not that he wants her anywhere near his cock on a regular day when she isn’t tearing dead people to shreds like a pack of wolves. That being said, Minho doesn’t really want _any_ female mouth around it.

Her nails dig into his forearm as she practically drags him around the entirety of Gangnam. Her bags are on the arm that isn’t being punctured by her overly pointy claws. The only thing he eagerly awaits while being a mole in Yellowood is that he won’t have to see Seolhee anymore. 

“Seolhee, please let go of my arm,” he says, voice void of any emotion. His facial expression matches his attitude, dull. Stoic. The only thing that indicating his misery are his pretty, plush lips turned down in a small frown. 

“Shut the fuck up,” she quips back, a little more fire to her voice than Minho’s could ever achieve. “Daddy says you won’t be around for a while, so you need to buy me things while you still can.” She pouts childishly. He quietly scoffs, fighting an eye roll at her petulance when she turns to look at him. 

Minho rolls his eyes so far back, he sees his brain. “Doesn’t your father give you an allowance every week?”

“Yeah? So does yours? Your money is better for me anyways. You get more of it.” She shrugs, pulling him into another store. 

“I work.” He deadpans, blinking rapidly. Seolhee whips her head around to glare at him, his body impulsively jerking back the second she does so. No one in the entire world, in the entire _ever-expanding universe_ , can make Minho feel as uneasy as Choi Seolhee does. He’s not one to be easily threatened, but from what he’s seen of her and what she’s capable of, he doesn’t wanna risk anything. Choi Seolhee might be the only thing alive that makes Minho believe there’s a chance the devil is real.

Seolhee is Choi Taeho’s eldest daughter, and unfortunately, his fiance. When Minho becomes Mamushi’s head, the first thing in his forced itinerary is to take her hand in marriage. It’s to keep the peace between Mamushi and the Syndicate — a Seoul based gang that’s command has belonged to the Choi family for ten generations. The Syndicate merged with Mamushi around twenty years ago, something done to guarantee the protection of the Chois. Taeho’s only demand was one that Minho’s father accepted with a snakelike smile: that Deoksu’s eldest son marry Taeho’s eldest daughter in the future. Deoksu had found the idea absolutely _lovely_ , apparently, and so the arranged marriage between Seolhee and the Mamushi heir was created. To say he’s dreading the day is an understatement. He’s thought about changing his name and undergoing plastic surgery to escape the country before that wretched day, but he’s sure she’d be able to literally sniff him out halfway across the world and drag him back home.

When they arrive at his apartment, she’s immediately on him. Nails digging harshly into the tan, unmarred flesh on his shoulders as she kisses him, sloppy and wet. He plays along, letting her take control of the kiss before her manicured hands cup his crotch. He sucks in a breath, not because it feels good. But because he knows what’s coming. He grants her wish of a good time, because he would rather fuck her than have her pitched voice pierce his eardrums for hours on end in complaint. Another survival tactic he’s picked up since he learned she will be his wife in future. Minho tries. He tries desperately, but this is always the most difficult part in being with Seolhee. It’s one of the things that makes the fact that he isn’t interested in women really hit him. When she unclips her bra and looks at him with a smirk that would be the downfall of any other man alive, he feels nothing. His stomach doesn’t flutter, not even in the slightest. No matter how much he pretends that in front of him stands a man, his cock makes no move to stir the way he knows it should. He just hopes she finishes quickly so he can take a scalding shower to wash away the dirt that he feels coats his skin. The sensation of being dirty is nothing new. It hits him every time he’s laid with her in his bed; it slashes Minho’s gut like he does to the men he kills.

What did he ever do to deserve this life? Perhaps, if reincarnation is true and not just a comfort concept, he was a ruthless dictator that killed millions in his past life and this was his punishment. It’s quite humorous how history is repeating itself in modern days.

Seolhee makes quick work of removing his shirt and he crosses his fingers, hoping his body can cooperate with him enough to give her what she wants. She tries to look seducing as she places kisses along collarbones, random bites that are too hard to be considered sexy on his chest. His tan skin is now covered in dark hickies and rough teeth marks, red and irritated. Minho has to force himself to not cry out whenever she bites down a too hard, blood just barely hitting the surface of his flesh.

“Tell me I’m pretty, Minho.” she demands. He complies, of course Minho complies, because the woman in front of him is Choi Seolhee, and people do not say no to Choi Seolhee.

“You’re pretty,” he says obediently, but with the same lack of emotion in his voice he’d had earlier that day. It isn’t that Minho is lying, not exactly. Objectively, Seolhee is a very beautiful young woman. Her hair is ink black and pin straight, it’s length ending just above her chin. She’s older than him by two years, but considerably smaller in stature. Where Minho is on the taller side with muscular thighs and broad shoulders, Seolhee’s body is rather elfin. He supposes that if he was interested in women, if only based on appearance, he would fall in love with her in mere moments.

She unzips his pants and slides them and his boxers down to the middle of his thighs before sinking herself down onto her knees and taking his flaccid cock into her mouth.

And so Lee Minho keeps trying, but he is so very tired.

* * *

05:13 PM :: SEPTEMBER 17 2021

  
  


_“It was like watching two people,_

_one hiding in the other’s skin._

_And their skin was always too dry,_

_on the verge of cracking and showing_

_the color of the thing beneath.”_

- _Victoria Schwab_.

He’s seated in a darkly colored room, the chair underneath him cold and uncomfortable. In front of him is a small metal table, it’s glossy surface glinting underneath the harsh light on the ceiling. It reminds Minho of an interrogation room. He's on the side of the table faulty parties belong in. The young heir isn’t quite sure what he’s been called here for, but he assumes it has something to do with his Yellowood assignment. Eventually, a man walks into the room. He’s tall — taller than Minho, at least — with dark eyes, and a thin face. His black hair is slicked back, and his suit is tucked and tidy. Minho isn’t able to recall ever having met him in the past, but he wishes he had. He’s handsome, the type of man who would have had Minho stumbling over his own toes as a teenager. For some reason or another, his aura is familiar. The man sits for a second, letting the silence tense before he starts talking.

“Lee Minho,” the man greets, voice professional. His voice is soft, yet stern. Like he’s been doing this for a long time. Minho supposes he probably has. 

“And to whom exactly do I have the pleasure of working with?” Minho asks, voice like a sweet venom. He crosses hands together languidly, slouching into his seat. No matter how attractive the man may be, Minho isn’t permitted to care.

“Park Jinyoung, and it’s hardly a pleasure, Mr. Lee,” he sighs.

“Mr. Lee is my father, and you will not be calling me as such. My first name is fine,” Minho retorts, tone clipped. Nobody calls him Mr. Lee. The last person who had had gotten a knife to the throat before they could even get out Minho’s full surname.

Park rolls his eyes, slamming a black briefcase onto the table. He clicks it open, and from within pulls a thick manila folder. “This is your cover. In this folder,” he voices, slamming his hand down onto the file harshly, “is anything and everything about the character you will be portraying when you infiltrate yellowood.”

Minho lifts an eyebrow, stomach twisting in irritation at Park’s snippy attitude. His hands that were once folded together lazily are now white with restrained anger. He calms himself after a moment, though. One of the only things he hadn’t rejected from his father’s training was refusal to show weakness. Minho would not let this man work him up, especially when it was obvious that was exactly what he was trying to do. “Tell me more,” he demands quietly. “I want to know everything about my Hollywood debut.”

He takes pride in the way that Park’s eye twitches at his snark.

“I already would’ve if you'd have let me continue, Mr. Lee,” Park says, voice just as professional as it was when he walked into the room. “Anyhow, let's go on.”

Minho keeps his smirk as he sits quietly, eyebrow raised to match the cocky arrogance he’s emitting from his aura.

“You’ll be using your legal name,” he begins. “Lee Minho, age twenty two. You are recently homeless, kicked from the home of your parents after not complying with their wishes of you finishing university and inheriting their hospital. You will be in possession of nothing except a small supply filled backpack, a few hundred dollars and the clothes on your back. Please tell me you are following along, Mr. Lee. I don’t know how this mission will work if you’re so useless that you can’t even listen properly.”

Minho’s stomach bubbles with irritation, but in response, he warps his smirk into a sweet, close mouthed smile and looks Park directly in the eye. “Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours, Park. I’m listening just fine.”

“Did you call my brother pretty?” Jinyoung asks with no moment of delay. His voice is icy, but his eyes are even colder. His facial expression is one of pure, undeniable hatred. “Before you got him killed, I mean. Did you call him pretty?”

Minho is completely unable to stop the way his entire body flinches backwards. His stomach sinks, and he stares back at the older man in silence.

— 

_“No son of mine will be an abomination.”_

_The gun goes off._

—

“Ah, I thought something about you was familiar.” is all he can manage to say, even after sitting in the quiet for over a minute now. After this, Minho thinks, he may lock himself inside his bathroom to heave up the contents of his stomach.

Thankfully, Park Jinyoung does not bring up his brother again.

Minho doesn’t know if he’d be able to keep himself numbed through a second mention.

The hours and days of training and going over his cover information seem to blur, the backstory getting drilled into his head relentlessly.

* * *

01:59 AM :: SEPTEMBER 21 2021

Seolhee is lying in his bed, her body completely bare, dark hair sprawled and messy from sex. She’s turned away from him, her back tattoo matching that of his own: a large mamushi snake printed down her spine. The only difference is she willingly went and requested it when she found out she would be marrying the future heir. Minho, fully dressed, is laying on his back with his hands under his head. He doesn’t like to be naked around Seolhee. He’s staring at the miniscule details of his ceiling, the fan the only noise cutting through the tense silence of the room.

Seolhee, of course, is the one to break it.

“You better not fuck this up, Lee.” she says plainly. “This is my one shot at power. If you blow your cover, I have nothing waiting for me in the future. Yellowood might want to kill you if they find out, but I’ll beat them to it. I’ll gut you like a fish before they can even get the word traitor out of their mouths.”

Minho hums in response, and then turns onto his side.

He falls into a dreamless sleep.


	2. ii. bc, lm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Hive King.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: homophobia, mentions of murder, mentions of drugs, drug use and drug addiction, mentions of past dubious consent, cannibalism humor, mentions of child abuse and religious extremism. 
> 
> we made a spotify playlist to listen to as you read! 
> 
> spotify link: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/57qJ7OkhPkF7nGfiCr0wgN?si=tWY_PPM7Q72XzTWm7YXm8g

**09:15 AM :: SEPTEMBER 17, 2021**

  
  


_“Light thinks it travels faster_

_than anything, but it is wrong. No_

_matter how fast light travels, it finds_

_the dark has always got there_

_first, and is waiting for it.”_

_-Terry Pratchett._

  
  


It’s a calm morning when Bang Chan makes the short trek from his car to the auto shop. His dark hair is brushed away from his forehead, and his eyes glimmer darkly. The chain resting against his neck sits comfortably atop his collarbones, the pale skin shown off by a fitted white t-shirt. On his legs are black jeans that cling to his muscled thighs. Chan doesn’t look like he fits into the chaotically organized garage; he’s far too cleaned up, especially in comparison to the certain perpetually motor oil-covered mechanic he’s arrived to speak to.

His wristwatch says 09:15 am. He’s right on time. “Hey. Youngjae.” Chan greets a familiar looking man with dark hair and broad shoulders. Youngjae nods in welcome. He’s working on an old red car. Maybe a ‘77 impala? “Where’s Sung?” Chan asks, wanting to get the conversation with him out of the way. His schedule for the day is annoyingly packed.

Youngjae points towards the back where a brown wooden door hidden from the general public is located. Chan nods before waving to the man, making his way back to the door. When he opens it, Ahn Hyejin is sitting in one of the chairs. The second person in the room is the mechanic in question, Han Jisung, leaning against the desk. He’s staring at his fingernails, a bored look on his face. It isn’t anything Chan isn’t used to; Jisung has a habit of being bored out of his mind when there isn’t a shattered car engine to fix underneath his hands.

Seo Changbin, Chan’s second in command, is seated at another chair in the corner. His fingers are interlocked, and his elbows rest on his muscular thighs. There is an equally unenthused look on his features. Chan thinks, if he didn’t know the smaller man so well, that he might be a bit intimidated by him.

The two have known each other for around eight years. Chan is older, but neither of them let the small age gap prevent them from trading pokémon cards at lunch as children. Changbin was the person who Hyejin, Chan, and Felix went to after Mamushi had murdered their parents. Changbin wasn’t completely able to understand what it was like for his bestfriends to lose their family — not with a father who’d been absent since his birth and a long dead mother who would lock him in a closet to pray away the evil in his small adolescent body, but he cared for them. He held Felix, let the fourteen year old cry into his shoulder while Chan and Hyejin built the base foundation of Yellowood in their anger. It was inevitable for Changbin to become Chan’s second in command when the back then small anarchist group started running.

Changbin was always so full of life and love, whether he knew it or not. Chan can’t help but to blame himself for what the younger man had been forced to become.

Hyejin stands up to greet Chan, a smile on her face as she embraces Yellowood’s leader, rubbing her manicured hand up and down his toned back. “It’s nice to see you, little brother,” she says to him. “Not doing anything illegal, are you?” She winks playfully. Chan laughs back, eyes crinkled up as he smiles wide.

“Define illegal.” Jisung answers for him, his doeish eyes glinting mischievously. Hyejin punches his shoulder lightly, a bright smile on her face.

“What do you have for us?” Chan asks, breaking the light atmosphere. Hyejin and Jisung immediately cease their joking, their faces returning to stoic expressions from their bright grins.

“Right,” Hyejin said. “There was another murder. Same m.o., same cause of death. The flowers were even on the body again.” Chan nods his head as his right hand comes to run along his jawline, trying to process exactly what Hyejin was saying.

“Was it Mamushi?” Jisung asks suddenly, back straightened and right leg crossed over his left. The mention of the all too powerful and menacing empire that’s spread like a nasty disease over Seoul sends a deep tension through the room. Every person in there has been affected by Mamushi in one way or another. It’s like a parasite, and the city is it’s unlucky host. They rule just about every corner of the upper class and the higher working class. Nobody knows who is in Mamushi, though. That fact makes it far harder to take them down than it would be if at least one powerful figure was known to the public.

The only hint that symbolizes someone working for Mamushi is the snake tattoo placed inconspicuously on their bodies, so hard to see at first glance. When you finally do see the brand, though, well, no one has lived long enough to tell of what happens when you do.

“It was,” Hyejin confirms, voice clear and calm.

The three men look over to her in a shocked silence. At the same time Chan goes to ask how she’s sure, Changbin speaks. “Yeah, right,” he says sarcastically, “Mamushi is too careful to get caught like this. It couldn’t have been them.”

“Maybe the killer _wants_ to get caught?” Jisung suggests quietly, a contemplative look on his face. “Why else would they have swapped from just a clean bullet to the head to basically tearing the victim to shreds?”

Changbin snorts. “Don’t be fucking stupid, Sung. There isn’t any way that one of those snakes wants to get caught. If there was absolutely anybody in Mamushi who wanted to, we would have tracked them down years ago. They’re too goddamn careful,” he argues brusquely. His fists are clenched in frustration.

“You don’t have to be a fucking asshole about it, Changbin,” Jisung snaps right back.

“Stop arguing, you bloody idiots,” Hyejin interrupts. “You didn’t even let me finish. We have solid proof that points to it being them,” she begins, rolling her eyes at the younger men. “I received word from our mole in the Herald that Mamushi canceled the paper that was going to run in the story a couple of days ago. They’re grappling at strings to keep it quiet.”

Changbin’s previously furrowed brows lift in surprise, mouth warping into an ‘o’ shape. “Wait, no shit?” he asks.

Hyejin groans. “Yes, Changbin. Absolutely zero shit.”

“Ha, who's the stupid one now?” Jisung torments.

Changbin moves quickly. He stands from his chair to grab Jisung’s arm, twisting it and pushing the taller man’s back down. Jisung lets out a nasally scream.

Chan and Hyejin both let out long, completely, and utterly exhausted sighs.

After separating the two young menaces, both Chan and Hyejin bid their farewells and leave together. The shuffle of his older sister’s dress suit is the only sound as they walk. He can sense that she has other things to say, call it sibling intuition, but he isn’t going to force them out of her if she isn’t able to say them just yet.

Eventually, they part ways. She turns to her car as he turns to his own. Just as Chan goes to open his car door, she catches him by his shirt sleeve. She must have walked back towards him without him noticing; silence has always been her specialty. Chan can’t count on both hands the number of times she had jumped out from behind doorways to scare him during their youth. He turns to her.

“Chan,” she starts. Her face is scrunched up in frustration. “There’s more I have to tell you.”

“Is it something so important that you couldn’t say it around Changbin and Jisung?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow up.

She nods. “This is serious, Chan. I’ve received word from our mole within Mamushi that somebody, very soon, is going to infiltrate Yellowood. They couldn’t tell me who it is, but they could tell me one thing about them.” The wind picks up just then, blowing her black hair, expression of her face grace. It reminds Chan of some climactic scene in an overly dramatic crime show. They told me that this person is highly dangerous.”

“Why couldn’t you say this in front of Changbin and Jisung?” he asks, partially annoyed and partially curious.

Hyejin lets out another sigh. This one is different from the comedic one that both she and Chan had let out as Jisung and Changbin fought. This one is tired. The woman standing in front of Chan is exhausted, both mentally and physically. He can now see the darkness under her eyes that he wasn’t able to see under the artificial light in the garage.

“It isn’t that I don’t trust them, Chan. You know that. Jisung is a good kid, and I love Changbin like a little brother. But like I said. This is serious. This... this isn’t good, Chan. This is something that can either be immediately swatted out like a fly, or something that may have the ability to tear Yellowood apart from the inside out. This is information that only you, as the head of the organization, should know.”

Chan can’t help the pit of worry that forms at the bottom of his stomach. He knows she’s right, that he shouldn’t be irritated about her hesitation towards telling the younger men. This is a nightmarish situation that they’ve always feared would happen.

“Okay. Thank you for telling me,” he says before pulling the older woman into a tight hug. He lets the contact last for a moment, lets himself bask in the comfort of his big sister's arms, but eventually has to pull away.

“Please, Chan, don’t let this ruin everything you’ve worked for,” she says as he opens the door of his car.

“I wish I could make you a promise,” he says, “but I can’t.”

He closes his door and pulls out of the lot.

* * *

**10:15 AM :: SEPTEMBER 17, 2021**

Minho wakes with a start, eyes unfocused as he sits up in bed. The sun peeks through his grey curtains, a strip of light shining along his face. Scratching his head, he checks the time on his phone. He’s overslept. “Figures,” he scoffs to himself. He must have forgotten to set his alarm the night before. The other side of his bed is empty now, Seolhee long gone. Minho lets out an involuntary sigh of relief. Her side is cold, yet the remnants of her perfume still stain the sheet. He can’t help but to crinkle his nose at the wretched smell. Perhaps he should throw the cloth into the wash before venturing out to his father’s office. His body falls back down onto the soft mattress, downy pillow greeting his head in what feels like a warm hug. He stretches his body, a small noise escaping his lips as he does so.

An obnoxiously loud sound rings through his quiet apartment, and Minho groans just as loudly in response. He should have expected it, really; he’s terribly late to the morning meeting with his father. Punctuality is Deoksu’s favorite thing, and Minho being over two hours late was most definitely a pain in the man’s side. “Master Lee,” he hears Chulsoo call from the entrance of his home. “Master Lee, are you awake?”

“I’m awake, hyung,” Minho rolls his eyes before calling back. He slides himself out of bed before opening his door and meeting the elderly man halfway into his living room. “Come to retrieve me?” Minho chuckles to himself as he brushes past the other to make his way into his kitchen. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No, I’m quite alright, Master Lee,” Chulsoo replies. Minho almost cringes at how primly and properly the elder speaks. “Your father is waiting for you. He was worried when you didn’t show up at eight this morning for your briefing.’’

Minho laughs at that. Deoksu and worried do not belong in the same sentence.

He grabs his coffeepot and fills it with water before pouring the liquid into the proper place on its machine. Reaching for the cabinet, Minho pulls down his coffee grounds and puts two scoops into a fresh filter before closing it and turning it on. “What did I say about calling me master?” He ignores the man’s warning. _Your father is waiting for you._ “You’re not a servant.”

Technically, he is. Park Chulsoo is Minho’s personal servant, practically raising him from when he was a young child. Chulsoo helped him when he would scrape his knees from playing outside, or console him when he’d have a nightmare. He was there to hold Minho’s trembling frame when he watched his father kill Jihoon. He vividly remembers the large tear stain on the man’s crisp white shirt. Chulsoo just let him sob and sob on him until he fell asleep. That was the last time the young heir shed another tear. Minho sees Chulsoo as more of a father than he could ever see Deoksu as.

He pushes the memory down, clearing his throat.

“I humbly reject your request, Master Lee,” Chulsoo responds. “Your father orders I call you as such, so I shall do so. I am—”

“Loyal to my father and the Mamushi empire, yeah yeah,” Minho finishes for him, having heard the same spiel hundreds of times. He waves his hand dismissively and watches as the coffee pours into the pot, the smell of espresso filling his senses. Minho closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. _Ah, sweet caffeine_. After the coffee is finished brewing, he pours it into a plain white mug. Afterward, Minho turns his body to face the shorter man. Chulsoo stands two inches less than Minho does, but he remembers a time when he had to look up at him. Back then, Chulsoo had menacing eyes and a cutting jawline. Throughout the years, he has become gentle around the edges. His previously soft black hair is now dusted with grey, and his sharp jawline is hidden by plump cheeks. He’s put on weight in recent years, no longer having to keep up with an energetic child anymore. His eyes still resembled that of a Mamushi member, though, sharp and serpent in nature. “Let him know I’m getting ready soon.”

“Yes, Master Lee.”

Soon after, Minho finishes his coffee, the mug resting empty and peacefully on the island in his kitchen. He returns to his bathroom to shower. He leaves a fluffy black towel resting peacefully on the counter by the shower. He makes sure to scrub any remnants of last night's events off of his body, practically rubbing his soft skin raw. He notices the fresh marks left on his body from Seolhee and he fights the groan from echoing out into his bathroom. “Fuck Choi Seolhee and her goddamn biting fixation.” He growls. She might as well be Hannibal Lector herself.

Once he is done, he goes to his bedroom to find his clothes for the day already laid out. Minho chuckles to himself. Old habits die hard, he guesses. He slips on the dark green button up, taking his time to button it and leaving the two upper ones undone. Minho knows that it’ll only add to his father’s anger, but it’s the last of him he’ll be seeing for a while. He’s not going to miss an opportunity to get on his nerves. His black slacks fit over his legs comfortably, the shirt tucking in without much trouble. After Minho is dressed and ready to go, he meets Chulsoo at his front door. The young heir slides off his house slippers, replacing them with dress ones before he and Chulsoo leave the spacey home.

The ride there is quiet, the driver humming along softly to the music playing on the radio. Minho doesn’t say anything about it. He likes to keep his employees comfortable, unlike his father who would threaten him to shut up. “Master Lee,” Chulsoo said suddenly. He turns his head to look at him, waiting for him to speak again. “There is a hair out of place. May I fix it for you?”

Minho nods and Chulsoo immediately leans forward to fix it, patting his head in the way he used to when he was a child. “If I am allowed to be honest, may I speak?” Chulsoo says suddenly, a request.

“You’re always allowed to be honest, hyung. I am not my father.” Minho reassures.

“I’m quite anxious over this mission,” Chulsoo says as he continues to fidget with the younger's hair. “Assassinations, those make me nervous for you. But this… is different. It puts a very sick feeling in my stomach, Master Lee.” Minho keeps his eyes on the floor of the car, the small speck of a wood chip more interesting than the conversation he’s having with Chulsoo. “Please, be careful.”

Minho’s ears start ringing as he averts his gaze from the elder. His eyes are wide, lips turned into a small frown. He resembles that of a child being scolded. He doesn’t know why the sentence Chulsoo muttered put him so on edge, but he decides that he hates the feeling. He clears his throat.

“I’m Lee Minho, hyung,” he responds pathetically. “Future heir to Mamushi. Nothing can touch me.”

The next thing the man says catches Minho more off guard than anything has in a very long time. “Look how you’ve grown,” Chulsoo says softly, moving his hand to frame Minho’s scared cheek. His voice is tired. “I know you’ll make me proud, child.”

Minho does not respond.

He cannot understand if the feeling swirling in his stomach is fear or sadness.

The driver arrives at his destination soon after their conversation, and Chulsoo all but rushes the younger up the steps and down the hallway to his father’s office.

“You’re three and a half hours late,” Deoksu says as Minho enters the room, venom in his words. His father is standing by the large window that overlooks the side yard, a fountain with a statue of Minho’s late great grandfather on it. The bright and colorful garden is a strong contrast to whom it belongs to. “You know how I feel about time.”

“I overslept.’’ His father turns his head to look at him, eyes raking down his form. Minho keeps himself steady, eyes even and unshaking as he awaits his father’s response.

“Overslept isn’t an excuse, Minho,” he nods along to his father’s words, lips pursed as if he was fighting back a snarky remark. “Time is money, and you’re wasting it by _sleeping_.” Deoksu spits in disappointment.

His father throws a dismissive hand his way before turning back to sit in the leather chair at his desk. His ankle crosses over his leg, folded hands lying peacefully on his knee as he stares his son down. Minho keeps eye contact, unblinking.

“Why did you want to see me?” Minho is the first to break the silence.

“You may not be directly working for me anymore for a while,” Deoksu started, throwing yet another file onto his desk carelessly. “But I still own you, and you still have a responsibility to me. To Mamushi.” Minho swallows. He knows what’s coming next.

“You still want me to carry out hits for you while also pretending to be in the gang that’s your potential threat?” Minho clarifies out loud, not waiting for the man to respond. Deoksu nods, a fake, tight-lipped smile on his aging face. “Do you _want_ me to get caught?” He clenches his fists.

“You’re a smart boy,” his smile makes Minho want to vomit. “You’ll figure it out.”

* * *

**03:55 PM :: SEPTEMBER 17, 2021**

The suit Minho had been wearing earlier was gone, long replaced by a baggy sweatshirt and grease stained jeans. A backpack was slung over his broad shoulder, yellow straps almost as dirty as the clothes on his body. He stands in front of a small ramyeon shop.

**_THE TORTOISE AND THE HARE._ **

He’s gone over the place in his files more times than he can count on both hands times three. Minho knows every single small imperfection, the date of every health inspection, every employee. He would most definitely be able to navigate his way through the building better than most of its employees could. It’s the first step of the plan. To Mamushi’s knowledge, the Tortoise and the Hare is a common recruiting ground for Yellowood.

Minho takes a breath, and then walks in.

He’s instantly hit with warm scents, ones that make him feel more at ease than he ever has even in his own apartment. He shakes the feeling off though, looking around before finding an empty booth in the far corner of the room. It isn’t long before somebody approaches. A young man with light hair and a gentle face stands before him.

With lack of a better way to describe the boy, he’s very fairy like. His hair is a pale color, and his eyes are kind. His freckle dusted cheeks are pushed into a smile. To Minho’s confusion, he doesn’t recognize him. _New, perhaps_ , he muses to himself.

“Hello,” the young man greets, tone friendly and voice surprisingly deep. “I’m Felix, I’ll be your server. Is there anything I can start you off with?” He pulls a notebook out of the apron around his waist.

“Uh,” Minho says dumbly. “What’s the cheapest thing you have? I don’t — um, I don’t really have a lot of money. I wasn’t able to grab much before they — um, nevermind. Anyways. Just, what’s the cheapest thing on the menu?” _Mm, maybe I should have gone into acting!_

Felix’s brows push together in concern. He lowers the notebook, putting it back where it was originally. “Is everything okay? Or — shit, sorry. That was probably too personal of a question to ask, I’m sorry. It’s my first day working the floor, I’m not great at this yet,” he giggles nervously.

Minho’s lips push up into a small smile. “It’s okay,” he says in his signature sugary tone. “Just ran into a bit of trouble. Nothing to worry your pretty little head over, mm?”

Felix leans in a bit. “Mind repeating that? I didn’t catch what you said,” he says. He tucks a strand of pale hair behind his ear, lifting a hand to point up at it. Inside is a hearing aid, a small device that Minho hadn’t noticed before because of the man’s hair.

“Oh, my bad,” Minho begins before repeating what he said to the boy, “That I just ran into a bit of trouble, nothing to worry your pretty little head over.”

A blush spreads underneath Felix’s freckles. “Oh!” he stammers out shyly. “Um — well, um! Okay! Um — if you don’t have much, though, I’ll put this on the house, yeah? Don’t, uh, don’t worry! So, uh! What would you like?”

Minho’s lips push into an ‘o’ shape at the offer before thanking the boy and opening the menu, skimming through it quickly and deciding on the first thing he sees that seems familiar to him. Felix scurries away afterward, the blush still on his cheeks. He watches the boy as he walks to the open window, pinning his ticket as he shouts the order to the chefs. Felix disappears into the back and Minho adverts his gaze back to look around the restaurant.

Lined on the walls are traditional Korean paintings, the bright hues of the reds and greens a pretty contrast against the dark brown wood. It has an energy that seems to Minho as if it is what a home should feel like. _Though_ , he muses to himself silently, _any place without association to Mamushi he could arrive would feel more like a home than his own ever did_.

As he waits for the food, a figure suddenly blocks the light reflecting in his eyes. He looks up to find the person he desires to see the most, yet the least all at the same time.

In front of Minho stands the most important person in the files he has read over nearly a hundred times: the face of Yellowood, Bang Chan.

The young heir feigns a puzzled look, his eyebrows moving upwards. “Um, Hello? Do you, uh, need something, or…?”

“I’m Chan,” he replies, holding out his hand for Minho to take. They were pretty, to say the least, and a bit bigger than his own; veiny hands with long fingers clad with silver rings, and if Minho was permitted to express who he truly is, his mind would probably be focused on the image of them around his neck. Or gripping his hips. Or wrapped around his —

He shakes his head a bit, making an attempt to remove any thought of… _that_ content. “Minho.” He takes the slightly older man’s hand and instantly notices how truly minuscule his own looks compared to the other’s. He has to will himself from a pathetic half chub as Chan sits across from him at the small table.

_Now isn’t the time to start salivating over pretty men, Lee Minho,_ he scolds himself quietly. _Focus on Yellowood_. 

He is the snake, Yellowood is the Garden of Eden, and poor Chan is Eve.

“What brings you to this side of town?” Chan asks, sitting down and folding his hands on the table. The lights glint prettily off his rings and into Minho’s eyes, a thing he’s witnessed his father doing on purpose to try and irritate him. Chan doesn’t seem to be doing that, though. He doesn’t seem to even notice the way the light bounces off of the metal and into Minho’s line of vision. “Never seen you around here before.”

Felix shows up with a tray, two glasses of water, and a steaming mug of tea balanced on it. He places the waters on the coasters in front of the two men, a shy smile on his face as he makes quick eye contact with the serpent eyed heir. Felix then gently puts the tea in front of Minho. He smirks slyly, fighting back the urge to wink at the fairy like man before he turns to one of his other tables. Chan clears his throat to catch his attention. And as if by instinct, he immediately places his full, undivided attention back to him. Despite Chan having a gentle face, the aura he gives off radiates that of pure authority and leadership, an aura that Minho can’t help but give his undivided attention to.

Minho clears his throat before he speaks. “Just moved here,” he says, takes a sip of his water, letting it sit in his mouth for a second, he’s stalling. “I’m not a local to this area. I’m from the Gangnam district.” The words are a bit clipped. He wants to play into his role as much as possible to the Yellowood hive king, so Minho does his best to seem like a young man who was just thrown out of his home.

“Gangnam? You’re a mess. Are you sure you’re from _Gangnam_?” Chan presses. It seems like he’s quizzing him. Minho stirs in his seats uncomfortably.

“I think I’d know where I’m from,” he answers, not even giving himself time to breathe after the older’s question. “It’s been a few days since I left. I don’t have a lot of clothes with me to change into, and I don’t have anywhere to bathe.”

Chan watches him for a moment. Eventually, he must decide that Minho’s answer has appeased him because he continues. “Sure must be a culture shock then,” he chuckles. “Yeongdeungpo isn’t quite the same environment as Gangnam,” Minho hums in response, taking a sip of the tea Felix had brought him. It warms his throat and stomach, bringing a feeling to Minho that was almost comforting in a strange way. “Still, why Yeongdeungpo?”

“It was just the first place I thought of that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune getting to by taxi,” he answers. He lets out a noise as he thinks of how to continue his sentence in a way that doesn’t sound scripted. Minho’s next words are spoken gently, yet uncomfortably. Nervous in a way that doesn’t seem purposeful. “There was an… unexpected event I didn’t have the money or resources to prepare for.” Chan makes a noise that sounds almost like pity, and it takes everything Minho has not to purse his lips in annoyance. Pity disgusts him almost as much as his cannibal at home.

“Do you have a place to stay?” Chan asks, finally picking his own drink up off of the coaster and taking a long sip of it. Felix comes around again with Minho’s food, placing it gently in front of him. The bowl of tonkatsu ramyeon’s scent takes over his senses. The broth is a tan, cloudy color, slices of pork and an egg sitting atop the noodles. Minho bows slightly in thanks as the boy walks off once more. Picking up his chopsticks, he starts to eat as he shakes his head slowly in answer to Chan’s question. 

“I have enough money to stay at a motel for a few days,” Minho says after he swallows. “But then I’ll have to find a shelter or something.”

“Nonsense,” Chan shakes his head quickly. “I can offer you a place to live and an environment to help you.”

Minho quirks an eyebrow, thrill bubbling in his stomach at the concept of marking another check on his internal list so early on. Said list _is_ indeed titled ‘How to Infiltrate South Korea’s Most Powerful Anarchist Group 101’. “Meaning?” he asks after a moment, his voice a curious calm.

* * *

**04:01 PM :: SEPTEMBER 17, 2021**

Chan wishes he could calm the ball of stress churning in his stomach. His elder sister’s words repeat in his head like a dark anthem.

_I’ve received word from our mole within Mamushi that somebody, very soon, is going to infiltrate Yellowood._

He takes a pathetic attempt at a deep breath, forehead wrinkled in frustration. He wants to tell Changbin; he wants to let the man know of the danger they are now in. The fact that he isn’t able to is enough to make his skin crawl.

_They couldn’t tell me who it is, but they could tell me one thing about them._

Who is it? Who **_is_** it?

_They told me that this person is highly dangerous._

Chan’s head won’t stop nagging at him. It won’t stop reminding him that this could very likely be the end of everything he and the rest of the Bang Society have worked to form. More importantly, it could be the end of the country’s only chance at any form of protection from its corrupt government and the monster’s within.

His brain is so busy underlining what may happen that Chan barely even registers that he’s arrived at his seventh destination of the day. It’s a small food joint, one that his little brother works in as of recently.

The Tortoise and the Hare is one of the most important hotspots for finding Yellowood recruits. The inexpensive menu and homelike atmosphere have a very active way of drawing in stray kids like moths to a flame.

He shakes himself out of it, cracking his knuckles before looking around. His brother is in the corner of the room talking to a customer that Chan is unable to see due to the angle. He can’t help but form a smile, the stress finally simmering down into a slightly less overwhelming feeling.

He doesn’t know who he would have become without the light that Felix carries inside of himself.

Their parents brought Lee Felix into his and Hyejin’s lives when they were very young. They adopted him from Australia after his birth mother died of a drug overdose. Shortly before Felix joined their family, he began to lose his hearing. From what his mother had explained to him and Hyejin in preparation for Felix moving into their home, it was due to a severe double ear infection that the mother hadn’t taken him to the doctor over. The infection didn’t cause Felix to go deaf, but he’s hard of hearing and wears in-the-ear hearing aids.

Chan waits in place for Felix to scurry off into the kitchen. He wants to get a good look at the person in the booth before he can decide whether or not to invite them into Yellowood. He’s always had a knack for it, but through his years as the vigilante group leader, Chan has gotten terrifyingly accurate analyzing people, predicting what they are going to do, and how they may benefit the country.

A man is at the table, or, may he rather say that there is a hurt and scared child inside of a grown man’s body there. Beside him, tucked close to his side, is a yellow backpack. Runaway? No kicked out. Possibly disowned, even. He’s dirty, too. Not extremely, so, but it’s easily noticeable. He looks younger than Chan by a year at most. He — _Oh. Oh, how interesting_. Chan certainly didn’t expect it to happen so quickly.

This man’s eyes, though young and afraid on an inner level, are lifeless as a facade. Snakelike.

This is him. This is the mole.

But why is the mole so **_afraid_**?

_Ah._

Chan does not feel the need to steel himself before walking over to him. Not even in the slightest.

_What a curious turn of events._

The man looks over at him after he reaches the table, brown eyes glimmering for a moment before he speaks. “Um, hello?” he says in a questioning tone. Oh, this kid is _good_ . He doesn’t sound scripted, the confused expression on his scarred face doesn’t even _look_ scripted. “Do you need something, or…?”

“I’m Chan,” he replies immediately. He holds out his hand for the nameless man to take. Chan doesn’t miss the way his ears go red as he looks at them.

The younger shakes his head a bit, nearly unnoticeable. “Minho,” he responds before sticking his own hand out to shake Chan’s. It’s very small, he notes. _Ah, how cute._ It isn’t smaller than his brother’s hands, though. One of Chan’s favorite hobbies is teasing Felix about how his hands are so small that he can barely even hold his phone.

“What brings you to this side of town?” Chan asks, sitting down and folding his hands on the table. “Never seen you around here before.”

Shortly after his question, Felix shows up, two glasses of water and a steaming cup of tea balanced on his server’s tray. He doesn’t glance at Chan, the boy knows better. This was their deal; Felix could work near Yellowood, but not _in_ Yellowood. He didn’t want this life for him. Never for somebody who, even after the murder of their parents, carries so much hope for the world. So, out of phone calls and home, Felix doesn’t associate with his brother. In the eyes of the public, they are total strangers.

The pale haired boy places the waters on the table coasters in front of the two men, a shy smile on his face as he makes quick eye contact with the serpent like man. Felix then gently puts the tea in front of Mamushi’s mole.

Minho smirks slyly at Chan’s brother, and he fights the urge to reach across the table and choke him on the spot. Instead, he clears his throat to catch his attention. And, as if by instinct _(Or could that be fear?)_ , Minho whips his head back to him. For some reason, it makes him feel a hint of protectiveness towards the younger man.

“Just moved here,” he responds and then sips the water in front of him. He puffs his cheeks out, holding the liquid in his mouth for a moment. _He’s stalling_. “I’m not a local to this area. I’m from the Gangnam district.” He says eventually. The words are a bit clipped. Chan can tell Minho only works his tone to be like that to further play into his role.

“Gangnam? You’re a mess. Are you sure you’re from _Gangnam_?” Chan presses, quizzing him. He wants to see how detailed this man’s internal script really is.

“I think I’d know where I’m from,” he quips back. “It’s been a few days since I left. I don’t have a lot of clothes with me to change into, and I don’t have anywhere to bathe.”

Chan watches him for a moment before continuing. He’s impressed at how well Mamushi has this guise plotted, truly. They should have known that it wouldn’t get past him, though. Nothing ever gets past the hive king.

“Sure must be a culture shock then,” he chuckles after a minute, deciding to keep playing along. “Yeongdeungpo isn’t quite the same environment as Gangnam.”

Minho hums in response, reaching down for his mug of tea. He takes a drink of it, and though Chan isn’t the one sipping, he can almost _feel_ its warmth. The tea is a Tortoise and the Hare specialty. Felix told him once, during his serving training, that his manager talked highly of it. She told the pale haired boy that if somebody ever looked lonely, bring them a mug. That it will help, it always does.

“Still, why Yeongdeungpo?” Chan asks after the younger man puts the cup back down on the table.

“It was just the first place I thought of that I wouldn’t have to spend a fortune getting to by taxi,” Minho answers, afterward letting out a noise. His next words are spoken gently, yet uncomfortably. Nervous in a way that doesn’t seem to be purposeful, not even to Chan’s observant ears. He knows fully well that it _is_ purposeful, though. “There was an… unexpected event I didn’t have the money or resources to prepare for.”

He makes a false noise of pity, and he doesn’t think the young man realizes it, but Minho’s eye twitches in response.

Chan begins to plot his own internal script.

“Do you have a place to stay?” he asks, finally picking his own drink up off of the coaster and taking a long sip of it.

Felix comes around again with Minho’s food, placing it gently in front of him. Minho bows slightly in thanks as he walks off once again, leaving to check on another one of his tables. He shakes his head no in response to Chan’s question as he picks up his chopsticks to eat with.

“I have enough money to stay at a motel for a few days,” Minho says after he swallows. “But then I’ll have to find a shelter or something.”

“Nonsense,” Chan shakes his head quickly. “I can offer you a place to live and an environment to help you.”

Minho quirks an eyebrow before asking his own question in response. “Meaning?”

“Say,” Chan speaks, eyes twinkling. “Do you want to go to a race with me tonight, Minho?”

_This is_ **_far_ ** _too easy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! thank you so much for reading! sorry it took us so long to get chapter two up. for some reason our brains were not working up until about half way through lol. 
> 
> we hope you enjoyed! please leave a comment & kudos if you don’t mind <3 
> 
> our twt is also linked in our profile description if you’d like to follow to see aesthetics and small excerpts outside of the main plot! 
> 
> and a note — though we write the things that we do, we do NOT agree to nor do we support any of the negative things done or said within the eots universe.
> 
> — with love, echo & min.


	3. iii. hj, lm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the Addict.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger / content warnings for ch.3: mentions of sex and sex addiction, sex work, minor description of physical abuse from a parent (being hit over the back of the head), implied internalized homophobia, and mentions of violent homophobic actions

**11:35 PM :: SEPTEMBER 17, 2021**

_"Sex had nothing to do_

_with feeling good, everything to do_

_with superficialities, and was always accompanied by a masochistic_

_need to feel anything but dead inside.”_

_\- Justin Donner_

Without a doubt, Han Jisung’s favorite thing, aside from sex and fixing broken cars that have been shattered beyond possible repair, is street racing.

The adrenaline of taking your car over a hundred miles an hour and drifting around sharp turns sends a shock through his entire body, one that he can only describe as euphoria. He gets off on it — on the thrill. Gets off on the way his stomach flutters when he catches air over a particularly high hill on the road they happen to be racing on. He loves it, craves it, even. Almost as much as he loves and craves rough hands all over his body.

Jisung’s entirety is a meld of those things — sex, and street racing. When he’s racing, when he’s even doing something as small as taking bets from races, his hands shake with deep anticipation. When he’s being fucked, when he is being held down by the small of his back and slammed into his own mattress or that of a stranger’s, he is able to take the rare opportunity to turn off his brain. To switch off the internal mess that is Han Jisung and just _be_.

He does not only love sex and street racing, but he _lives_ for them.

“You look about two seconds away from cumming in your pants and the race isn’t anywhere near starting,” Jisung hears a voice say from his side. He turns, a lopsided smirk on his face as he slaps his hand with Jaebum’s and pulls the older man into him to bump their shoulders. “Chill out, yeah? Over excitement is gonna cost you.”

“Cost me? Please, do you realize who you’re saying that to? I never lose.” Jisung waves a hand dismissively, pressing a hand to the hood of the car in front of him and rubbing over it soothingly as if he’s comforting a living being. Jaebum walks around to inspect his car, eyes glimmering just as much as the younger’s as he pops the hood. “Ain’t she pretty?”

“Pretty?” Jaebum almost scoffs at him. His long fingers trace delicately over the engine, a trace Jisung is all too familiar with. “Do I really even have to answer that question, Han? Betsy’s gorgeous.” The mechanic can practically hear the moan in his voice, and his chest swells at the mere prospect of possibly hearing the same sound in his ear later tonight. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s heard it, and probably wouldn’t be the last. Jisung watches attentively as Jaebum rakes his hands through his thick hair, throwing the top half of it up in a messy bun. Pieces on the side frame the older man’s astonishingly gorgeous face, and it takes everything in Jisung’s power not to stare obnoxiously at his jawline and the way he clenches it.

“Hannie! Baby doll! Are you racing tonight?”

Ah, there it is. The easiest way to snap Jisung out of a sex-crazed trance.

Jisung groans. “Jesus Christ — why do you pop up everywhere I go?”

Hwang fucking Hyunjin.

Jisung _hates_ Hwang fucking Hyunjin.

He skips up to the two men, throwing his arm haphazardly over Jisung’s shoulder and practically toppling over him, making the shorter shuffle his foot to keep himself upright. The smell of Hyunjin’s sickeningly sweet perfume fills his nose. Jisung had been fond of roses until meeting the slightly older man. Apparently, one of Hyunjin’s hobbies includes dumping an entire bottle of perfume with the scent of them over his head every goddamn day. Now? Jisung says _fuck_ roses.

Hyunjin’s blonde hair is down and parted to the side, peachy pink eyeshadow painted over his lids prettily, and his lips are coated with a thin layer of pink gloss. A white button up is tucked neatly into his pants, accentuating his small waist and pretty hips. Jisung absentmindedly winds his arm around Hyunjin’s waist to keep the man from falling into him even further.

“You know I have to watch my favorite tiny racer every weekend! Silly Sungie,” He coos in response to Jisung’s bitching. Hyunjin pinches his cheeks teasingly, shit eating grin on his face.

“Don’t you have closeted businessmen to blow?” Jisung retorts, pushing his hand away.

“I think that question is absolutely hysterical coming from _your_ perpetually horny ass, baby doll.” Hyunjin’s pretty eyebrows are raised, and his pretty mouth is lifted into a pretty, sardonically gentle smile. Everything about him is pretty. Fuck the word pretty, now, too! Jesus _Christ_. Hyunjin ruins everything.

“I’m beginning to realize that all the two of you do is fight like petty cats,” another voice supplies.

Kim Seungmin walks up behind them, not so subtly swatting the mechanic's hand away from the taller’s waist. Jisung lifts his hands away in defense and Hyunjin turns to shuffle closer to the other tall man. “Good luck tonight. Yugyeom is racing.”

“Yugyeom’s here?” Jaebum asks, raising an eyebrow, his lips quirked into a small frown. His face twists into a mix of hopefulness and heartbreak, and it makes something twinge unpleasantly in the pit of Jisung’s stomach. It’s not that he’s _into_ Jaebum romantically. He just… really enjoys his company — his cock is also an added benefit; the possibility of having to lose another readily available body makes Jisung fight back a whine.

“Yeah. Saw him with a girl over that way like five minutes ago,” Seungmin shrugs. Hyunjin throws his arms over Seungmin’s shoulders, resting his head against the other’s as a subconscious pout stretches over his _pretty_ lips. “Seemed quite friendly with her.” Jaebum’s face falls, painfully noticeable, at that statement.

Jisung stops himself from stomping his feet like a petulant child.

Jaebum is helplessly in love with Kim Yugyeom; it’s quite the pathetic sight to see, really.

Yugyeom isn’t one to commit to a singular person for very long. He has a very… loaded history of leading men and women on until they fall head over heels for him, only to leave them in the dust for the next nice looking face.

Jisung may hate Hyunjin and his stupid perfume, but he _idolizes_ Kim Yugyeom and his ability to seduce anyone he so wishes.

“Ah! Channie hyung!” Hyunjin shrieks, practically skipping over to their leader as the older man approaches. “Oh! A new one! He’s absolutely delicious, hyung. Truly. You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”

Jisung looks over Seungmin’s shoulder to take a peek at what Hyunjin was screaming over. If the racer was a cartoon character, his jaw would literally be on the ground. Standing next to Chan is the most beautiful man he’s ever set his eyes on. His hair is a warm brown color. He has sharp eyes, a cute little nose, and pouty lips. His jawline is so sharp that it shouldn’t be legal, but it ties his face together perfectly. His shoulders are broad, arms and hands are veiny, and his thighs are thick and muscled.

This man is the definition of his wildest wet dream.

Jisung wants him.

“Sung, you’re drooling.” Seungmin chuckles. Jisung blinks repeatedly, wiping his mouth with his hand as he makes quick eye contact with Mr. Sex-On-Legs five feet away from him.

“I’ll catch you after the race, yeah?” Jaebum places a large hand on his waist to catch his attention, a small smile playing on his lips. Jisung grins back, hand running down his arm as he walks away from the group. He assumes that Jaebum is going to seek out Yugyeom, as if he would go back to him. He honestly kind of pities the elder.

Jisung wonders who else is going to be racing tonight besides him and Yugyeom. This one is going to be relatively long, so maybe Momo. She usually pops up at the big street races. Moonbyul hasn’t shown up at one in a while, and honestly, he hopes that she stays gone. She always gives Jisung a run for his goddamn money. Yeonjun will definitely be in. God, his car is fucking beautiful. Though, if he may add, he finds the driver himself to be even more so than the car.

“Jisung,” Chan addresses him, interrupting him from his thoughts and making him his head up. “This is Lee Minho.” Mr. McSteamy-Sex-On-Legs bows a little, and if Jisung says it doesn’t make his heart flutter at how polite he is, he’s lying right through his teeth.

“Hey,” he greets simply, only sending Minho a short glance before turning his gaze back to Chan. He’s cool. Jisung is _cool_ . He certainly does _not_ almost bite his own tongue at how lame he sounds. Not at all. “He bein’ brought in or something?”

The hive king nods at Jisung in response, dark hair falling into his face a bit as he does so. He looks back to Minho, trying to observe him, but doesn’t pick up much. He isn’t good at reading people like Changbin is, and certainly not good at it like Chan. All Jisung can get from the new face is that he feels a bit uncomfortable right now because he’s in a new environment. He also gets a faint impression that he’s seen some shit.

“No need to look so nervous, newbie.” Jisung laughs, reaching out to shake Minho’s hand.

Minho makes no move to take his hand, rather, he tilts his head a bit as he glances down at the other’s outstretched hand. “I’m not nervous,” he says after a moment.

Jisung drops his hand and raises an eyebrow. “Ooo, a fearless one,” he murmurs sarcastically. “I bet you’re the type to say you aren’t cold when it’s snowing.”

“Only idiots say that,” Minho shoots back quickly, recovering as fast as Jisung could exhale. Jisung scoffs, pokes the inside of his cheek with his tongue. This man just keeps getting more and more attractive.

“So, basically, what I’m understanding here, is that you’re an idiot?” Jisung laughs, voice falsely sweet, an annoying grin on his face.

“Are _you_ the type to say you aren’t cold when it’s snowing?” Minho responds, just as fast as his first response and in the same tone as Jisung.

“Obviously,” Jisung nods.

Minho sighs. “You don’t have very many friends, do you?”

Jisung gapes. Hyunjin snorts. “I have _plenty_ , thank you very much!” he lies.

“The people that dick you down every night don’t count, babe.” Hyunjin chimes in, a giggle escaping his lips. Chan covers his mouth in faux shock and Seungmin lets out a breathy laugh.

“Excuse me, I do not bottom!” _Yes, he does._

“Yes, you do.”

“No, I _don’t_!”

“Okay, size queen pillow princess ass bitch.”

Jisung certainly does not go beat red. Not at all. “I will skin you. I will _skin you_. Do not test me, Hwang, because I will fucking do it.”

He hears Minho’s chuckle at the interaction, and it sets his chest alight as he pauses to glance at him. Such a soft, pretty sound. Almost like a giggle. His small, satisfied smirk is a stark contrast to the sound that emitted from his pretty mouth just seconds ago.

He hears the telltale sign of the race starting, multiple engines roaring to life. Jisung audibly moans as he practically hightails it to the driver's side after slamming the hood down to start it up too. He rolls his window down, arm hanging haphazardly out the window as he makes eye contact with Minho. “I’ll see you after I win, yeah?” He winks.

Minho raises an eyebrow and then rolls his eyes. He shoves his small hands into his pockets and, honest to fucking God, tilts his head like a fucking puppy. How is this man real? Jisung can’t decide if he wants to either gently pat his head or if he wants to suck the soul out of his dick. His mind wanders quickly to how pretty Minho would look with his eyes rolled back in pleasure before a horn goes off, signaling the start of the race.

Jisung shakes the thought away as he presses his foot on the gas, right hand gripping the wheel tightly as his adrenaline levels skyrocket into a euphoric buzzing that encompasses his entire body.

He wins. As usual, though.

He _is_ Han Jisung.

Han Jisung **_always_ ** wins.

* * *

**04:25 PM :: SEPTEMBER 22, 2021**

Minho hasn’t done much with Yellowood in the first five days he was initiated, but that was to be expected. Chan got him set up in a studio apartment in a complex that’s run by the group to live in. The building is somewhat of a safe zone for the Yellowood members. His new home for the time being is a tiny, cozy unit. It’s a lot smaller than his penthouse apartment in Gangnam, but he quite likes it. He’s always thought that the penthouse was too spacey, something that made it far too easy to feel suffocated despite its vast expanse. Maybe, it wasn’t the penthouse that made him feel suffocated, though.

His work for Mamushi on the other hand…

So far, his father has ordered three hits within just five days. That’s more than usual, which means his father is trying to dispose of as many threats as possible to his position of power at the throne. Speaking of Deoksu, he’s just two steps away from the door of his study. He hates that damned door.

When he walks in, his father is laughing with the guest he has in his study. A drink is in his hand, something Minho isn’t particularly surprised about, and his golden watch sparkling from the ceiling lights as he clinks his glass with the other man’s. “Ah! My son!”

The guest turns around and Minho almost chokes on his own spit. The President of the Republic of Korea is standing in his father’s office, sharing a drink with him. The fucking—

“You must be Minju,” he says confidently, stretching his arm out to shake the younger’s hand.

Minho blinks, lips set in a frown, jaw set. “It’s Minho.” He corrects immediately, trying to keep his face from turning red at the sudden irritation he feels bubbling in his stomach. It doesn’t stop his ears from turning a deep shade of pink, though. He makes no move to shake his hand, and the older man clears his throat before stuffing his hand into his pocket.

“I see your child doesn’t understand how to respect his elders, Deoksu,” the President sighs indignantly, taking a sip of his drink. Minho almost sneers at him. 

He notices his father watch his hand like a hawk, ready to strike at any moment if the President of the fucking country tries anything funny. “Forgive him. He sometimes forgets what I’ve taught him. Right, son?”

Minho is dreaming. He has to be. He pinches his own arm. He isn’t dreaming. He is witnessing his father kiss ass to the leader of South Korea in his own office in real time. With his own goddamn eyes. Minho has half a mind to rub his eyes to see if this is all an illusion.

“Well, I should get going, then,” he says, finishing off his drink and placing it on his father’s desk. He sees Deoksu’s eye twitch. He fights a smirk. “Deoksu,” he bows, and he witnesses his father scramble to stand up from leaning on his desk to bow ninety fucking degrees at the President of the Republic of South _fucking_ Korea. The President is facing Minho once again, an expectant expression on his wrinkled face. “Minju.”

_Deep breaths, Minho. Deep breaths. In, out. In, out._

“Attorney General.” Minho shoots back before he can think, a pleased look on his face as he bows at him. The president takes a physical step back in shock, mortified. Minho would be lying if he said that he didn’t take pride in the absolutely gobsmacked expression on the man’s face. Deoksu will most definitely be feeding his head to the dogs for this.

Once the President is gone, Minho feels a hand strike the back of his head. If he wouldn’t have expected something like it to happen, the force probably would have sent him falling on his face. “What the hell is wrong with you?” His father growls. “Have you lost your goddamn mind, Minho? Have you no shame?” 

“Have _you_ no shame?” Minho shoots back, a short accusatory finger jabbing towards his father’s chest. His eyebrows are scrunched together in an annoyed bout of confusion. “Kissing up to the President? I thought you hated him, but there you are, _bowing_ to him. What just happened?”

“I would pay any money to put him in the ground,” Deoksu seethes. His father sighs, closing his eyes to reel in his true feelings about the face of their country. “But, sometimes, you must bite your tongue in the face of a good deal. It’s called business, you absolute moron. You would understand that if you actually put the time and effort into learning the way Mamushi runs.”

Minho ignores the jabs, used to his father’s pettiness after over twenty years spent hearing similar things. “What was the deal?” he asks. Minho isn’t sure why, but something seems off. He feels it in the depths of his gut and, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know if he actually wants to find out. Something is very wrong about his father creating a partnership with the President, a public figure his father has shown his hatred for unapologetically.

His father hesitates. “Campaign stuff. Nothing for you to fret over,” Deoksu walks back to his desk, finding home on his chair, hand mindlessly going to his glass of wine. “Now, what have you accomplished so far?”

“Well,” Minho begins flatly. “As you know, I successfully infiltrated Yellowood.” He’s only stating the obvious in hopes of being a pain in his father’s side. He’s feeling _particularly_ irritating today, probably because he knows that Mamushi's throne won’t inflict any physical punishment. It would affect his plot to put out Yellowood’s flame from the inside out. His father is practically at his mercy, and he’s going to take advantage of it at every chance he gets.

Deoksu’s grip on the wine glass tightens, knuckles going white. He always has been quick to anger. “Yes. I am very aware of this, Minho.” he spits venomously, the true snake Deoksu is. “Tell me what I am _not_ aware of.”

“I mean, I got an apartment? It’s quite nice. Small, but I like it. I could show you pictures if you’d like,” Minho smiles innocently, small hands pushing into the air in a shrugging motion. “It’s taking some time to —”

His father slams his wrinkled hand on the desk, a loud smack echoing through the room and vibrating the young heir’s very bones. Minho takes pride in the fact that he doesn’t visibly flinch. Deoksu’s glass of wine shatters against the floor, deep red seeping into the floor. “Can you be serious for one goddamn minute?” Deoksu seethes. Minho is imagining smoke coming from the man’s ears as he stares blankly at him. “What I gather from your bloody apartment spiel, is that you haven’t done anything useful for me?” 

Minho doesn’t respond. Deoksu sighs, waving a dismissive hand at his son as he picks up his phone to call for a clean up of his spilled wine. “Get out of my sight. You better not come back onto the premises unless you have something for me. Forget your new assignment this week and _you’ll_ be next on my hit list. The fact that you are my son is nothing to me. I can have you killed in the blink of an eye and smile about it,” he grunts, and then makes a noise of consideration. “Mm, that would make my life so much easier, actually. Do not cross me, Lee Minho.”

“Good luck getting rid of Yellowood, then, father.” Minho sneers back before following his orders and walking out the door, back slouching and hands resting in his pants pockets. The door slams shut just before a maid is about to enter. He bows in apology before finding his way out into the street and tries to remain unbothered when she looks at him in surprise.

When he gets back to his apartment, Chan is standing in the middle of his living room with a man that’s small in height, but muscular in build. He doesn’t have to introduce him for Minho to know exactly who this man is.

Seo Changbin. Yellowood’s second in command. 

“You haven’t decorated yet,” Chan muses, having heard the door opening. He doesn’t bother to turn his head to Minho, too busy staring at the barren walls. “Where were you?”

Minho shrugs his shoulders lazily, despite Chan not looking at him. “Out. Exploring. This area is still new to me,” he muses as he flips himself onto the apartment’s lumpy couch. The lie rolls off his tongue easily, like water flowing down a current without a second thought.

“See anything interesting?”

“Eh. Not particularly. Everything is just very different, I guess,” Minho responds, shrugging again. He tilts his head and crosses his ankle over his knee. “Are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

Unlike Chan, who is still staring at the wall, Changbin is staring down at him. The younger man’s dark eyes are boring into his own, calculating. Minho can tell that he’s being analyzed. He would have to be a fool to not understand that Seo Changbin does not trust him. Not one bit. There is something very unsettling about the way he is reading Minho as if he is an open book.

Lee Minho is not intimidated by a lot of people, but there is something about Changbin’s aura that makes him want to keep a distance. Despite this, though, he maintains eye contact.

“Seo, Changbin.” The younger eventually grunts. He crosses his arms over his chest, making his white t-shirt slightly tighten over his shoulders. The fabric fits him well. It’s tucked neatly into black jeans, cuffed at the bottom, and a pair of red sneakers on his feet. His hair is dyed a color that is somewhere in between grey and a dark blue, the locks smashed down by a maroon beanie. “You gonna tell ‘im why we’re here at any point, Channie? We’ve got shit to do.”

“Oh! Yes,” Chan snaps out of the small trance he’d been in, a smile lighting up his features as he finally turns around to face Minho. “I know you just settled in, but we have an event tonight, and all members are required to attend it.”

Minho’s interest is suddenly piqued. “An event?”

Chan scratches the back of his neck, making his shirt rise a little bit and smooth, pale skin peek out from under. Minho tries not to stare, tries to not think too hard about how defined Chan’s hip bone is. “Seungmin — I think you met him at the race, tall and skinny. Black hair. — he’s taking over the casino we own. It’s going to be a small celebration for him. It’ll be fun, and honestly, it’ll probably be a good way for you to make some friends. You won’t get too far in Yellowood if you don’t have anybody you can call home. I’ll leave you a note with the address so you can find it, but it shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Home. What a flawed idealization. Minho has never had something that he could call his home, not a place nor another human being. To find a home is a path into softness, and that isn’t something Minho can afford to do.

“Will there be a dress code? I don’t have much to choose from for obvious reasons,” Minho wonders out loud, referencing the situation he faked to get into Yellowood. He’s already internally plotting. This is his opportunity to make some helpful connections within Yellowood. If Minho can get close to the right people, learn the right things, this infiltration mission will end a lot sooner than originally estimated.

His question causes a laugh to erupt from the hive king’s chest; it’s high pitched, airy, a pleasant sound, and Minho suddenly becomes very confused.

“Seems like you still have that rich boy mentality,” Chan says, wiping away a fake tear to add to dramatics. “Wear whatever you deem appropriate.”

The older man leaves with Changbin not long after the invitation’s extension so Minho can ready himself.

  
  


* * *

**10:00 PM :: SEPTEMBER 22, 2021**

The casino is a hell of a lot fancier than Minho is used to seeing, even there in Gangnam. The entrance driveway is long, lined with bright streetlights that have intricate signs pointing to the front of the building. Valet parking goes straight, regular parking turns right. The car lot, filled to the brim, stretches out past the horizon it seems. Minho is barely able to see the entirety of it after a few meters. Extravagant is the only word in Minho’s extensive vocabulary that can be used to describe the building’s exterior.

A thick red carpet leads to large front doors made of glass from top to bottom, each adorned with golden handles to pull them open with. Gold pillars stand tall in front of the clear doors, the overhead lights making them gleam and shine dramatically as he walks up the steps next to Yellowood’s king. On top of the building in gleaming white lights is the name.

**DISTRICT 9**

_Club & Casino _

Everything about the place is bright and extremely in your face about how much money it brings in. As Mamushi’s heir, this isn’t his first casino rodeo, but he would be lying if he were to say this isn’t the most beautiful one he’s been to. That being said, though, he’s never been to a casino for a purpose other than an assassination job.

“Seungmin really did this place up nice, huh?” Chan says as they walk in. The young heir is too entranced by District 9’s interior to really pay attention to what the elder is asking. The inside is as illuminated as the outside is, marble floors reflecting the lights from the golden chandeliers above. The chairs are a posh looking red velvet fabric on a golden frame. So much fucking gold.

Towards the side of the room is a large stage and he immediately recognizes the pretty blonde from the race sliding his back down a silver pole. Hyunjin, was it? His eyes are piercing and filled with lust as he opens his legs to give the audience of older men and women a peek of what’s in his tight pants. Hyunjin arches his back as he stands, and a man comes up behind him to wrap his arm around his waist. They grind their bodies together slowly. It looks like Hyunjin moans, but Minho isn’t able to hear from the distance and the noise. His mesh top does nothing to hide his torso, nipple piercings glinting under the stage lights oh so prettily.

It’s all too erotic and overwhelming for Minho. He looks away.

“Hyunjin used to be a child actor,” Chan says suddenly, noticing the younger watch the blonde twist and turn his body expertly around the pole. “I’ve known him for about three years. We met when —”

“Lee!” Minho’s attention is taken away from Chan as he hears an excited voice ring out into the already loud casino. Both him and Chan pause as they look over.

Minho’s mouth runs dry as he spots the man from the race five days ago, Jisung, at a table with Changbin. Two other seats are empty, one next to Jisung and the other next to Changbin. Jisung is wearing a white form fitting tee shirt tucked into tight black pants that show off just how tiny his waist really is with a bomber jacket over his shoulders. He’s unfairly beautiful, and Minho’s fingers twitch with the subconscious thought of wrapping them around his waist and squeezing ever so — _anyways_. He shakes his head lightly to rid himself of the rest of that thought.

Jisung is excitedly waving his arm to get the elder’s attention as the other man stares him down. Minho turns his gaze towards Changbin and forces his body not to respond. Changbin’s eyes are hardened, squinted into that of a barely noticeable glare. Minho can feel the distrust radiating off of the smaller man. If he didn’t have the proper training, the look most definitely would have made him blow his cover out of anxiety. But, he’s Lee Minho, future heir of Mamushi and his father is Lee Deoksu. Pretending is his middle name.

“Come play!” Minho glances to Chan to gauge his reaction, and Chan just shrugs before clapping a friendly hand onto his shoulder.

“I have to speak to Seungmin anyway, we’ll continue this later,” Chan smiles brightly. Minho is almost taken aback that the leader of the biggest vigilante group and Mamushi’s biggest threat has a smile that can outshine the sun itself. “Have fun. And win, will you? Changbin is a menace when it comes to poker.” 

Minho sends a closed mouth smile to Chan as he walks away in response. He looks back over to Jisung’s table and sees that the chair next to him has been occupied. A boy with midnight blue hair sits comfortably in the seat, hands folded on the table as his leg bounces. He’s dressed in black jeans with a hole in the right knee and a dark green tee shirt tucked into them and white shoes. Minho can’t pin it, exactly, but there’s just something about the kid that makes him feel uneasy. Perhaps it's the fox-like smile on his face.

Snakes and foxes usually don’t get along too well. From what Minho can recall from science lessons with Mamushi tutors as a child, in a match of snake versus fox, the serpent always ends up dead.

Minho takes the small trek to the table, seating himself next to Changbin who avoids any contact with him. He gets a grunt that he has to strain his ears to hear. He nods his head to him in greeting before turning his head to the one who called him over. “Who’s dealing?” the blue haired kid asks. 

“How did you even manage to get into the casino, Jeongin?” Changbin asks as he lazily shuffles the cards, eyebrow raised at the kid. “You’re not even legal.”

The blue haired kid who he now knows as Jeongin, smiles wide as he squints his eyes pointedly at Changbin. “You see, tiny hyung,” he starts, voice pitched in excitement. Changbin jolts a bit in the chair, fist raised as if he was going to hit him, bottom lip between his teeth in irritation. Jisung’s laugh rings in Minho’s ears at the nickname and he quickly realizes he likes how it sounds in a passing thought. “I have a very convincing ID.”

“You’re fuckin’ lying. Let me see,” Changbin yells, reaching his hand out towards the younger. Jisung laughs loudly once again, smacking the table with his fists as Jeongin pulls out his ID and hands it over to the elder. Changbin studies it, his face falling. “Holy shit, kid. Where’d you get this?”

Jeongin giggles as he continues to smile wide. “I made it.” Changbin scoffs in disbelief as he throws the ID back to the younger. Each of them places a couple of chips in the middle of the table as Changbin cuts the deck, then adds his own.

“You ever played poker before, Lee?” Changbin suddenly asks as he hands out cards to each member seated at the table. He gives Minho a side glance as he throws a card haphazardly onto his own pile before throwing one Jeongin’s way. Minho gathers his cards as Changbin throws them haphazardly to him, his gaze stuck on the other’s side profile. He gets five cards in total. 

“I have,” he says, quiet sounding under the loud hustle and bustle of the building around them,

“Then you’d know that it’s a lying game,” Changbin adds as he picks up his own cards. “You good at lying, Lee?” Minho stops his body from tensing, his face ever so calm and equally as hard to read as Changbin’s. 

“Not particularly,” he answers, his voice even. “I don’t see the point in doing so.” Changbin lets out an exhaled laugh at his response, a lazy, lopsided smile on his face. 

Before Changbin can respond, Jisung whines about getting the game started. “I have plans tonight after this.” 

“No one wants to hear about your sex life, Sung,” Changbin snaps, setting the rest of the cards to the side. “Place your bets.” Changbin places three cards in just under the chips. Minho adds three more chips, making quick eye contact with the brunette across from him. 

Jisung is ogling Minho very obviously, and he isn’t even sure whether the smaller man realizes it or not. Minho doesn’t understand how he could be so open about his sexual attraction to men. In Mamushi, if a man showed interest in another man, they’d be executed within the hour they’d been discovered. Minho has experienced this firsthand. He doesn’t go out of his way to purposely think back to it.

“I raise you three more,” Changbin challenges. The young heir raises an eyebrow, side eyeing the younger as he nods. He adds three more chips, as does the racer.

“I drop,” Jeongin calls, expression suddenly serious as they start the first round. 

“Call it.” Changbin orders. 

Jisung is the first to call his hand, “I’ve got nothing.” He sighs as he places the cards face up to show the pair. 

Changbin nods, placing his deck down as he says, “One pair.” He points to his two ten cards, the others consisting of a King, Queen, and three cards. 

Minho calls nothing. 

The game goes on for a while, Jeongin eventually pulling through with a few hands here and there. It seems the game has turned into a small war between the second in command and the serpent, tension building it seems as they take turns winning over the other. 

It isn’t until the last round that Changbin smirks, throwing his deck down. “I have a flush. Show your deck.”

“I don't have anything,” Minho says, shrugging. He doesn’t show his cards, face stoic as he keeps eye contact with Changbin. He can feel the younger two on the other side watching intently, Jeongin’s mouth ajar in awe at his elder finally winning the third round in a row. 

“Okay. So show it.” Changbin snaps. The smirk is still there, one side of his pretty mouth pulled up and his eyes twinkling darkly.

Minho shrugs again before throwing his deck down. He’s able to keep his face completely and utterly blank until both Jisung and Jeongin collectively scream. Changbin gapes, and Minho collects the chips, a cocky and lopsided smirk on his pretty features.

His deck consists of the highest ranking value anyone could have in a poker game when using a standard pack; a straight flush. The pretty red 10, 9, 8, 7, and 6 of hearts all stare the other players in the face.

“I thought you said you were bad at lying,” Changbin growls, voice low. His eyes seem even darker than usual, both awe and irritation blending beautifully over his features.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Minho asks, leaning over, face just inches from the younger’s as he smiles at him innocently. “ _I lied_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my lord, this took so long we're so sorry. here it is, though! we made it extra long to make up for the wait!
> 
> as usual, thank you so much for reading!! please don’t forget to kudos, bookmark, and leave us a comment to tell us any theories or feelings you have towards the story so far!! we are so excited to hear what you all think!! what did you think about jisung's official official introduction? he's super fun for us to write from the point of view of! he may seem a bit easier going than the other characters at the moment, but don't let that fool you. insert evil laughter here. if you've noticed, it probably seems like we accidentally eave a lot of things out in chapters, but i promise you we know exactly what we're doing ;]
> 
> and a note — though we write the things that we do, we do NOT agree to nor support any of the negative things done or said within the eots universe.
> 
> — with love, echo & min.
> 
> a ps, if anybody knows how to play poker, we are so sorry. we have no idea. min was frantically goggling how to play it while writing that scene LMAO,

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! please don’t forget to kudos, bookmark, and leave us a comment to tell us any theories or feelings you have towards the story so far!! we are so excited to hear what you all think!! we have worked extremely hard plotting this story and hope it isn’t going to disappoint!
> 
> and a note — though we write the things that we do, we do NOT agree to not support any of the negative things done or said within the eots universe.
> 
> — with love, echo & min.


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